


MOTN: Lent

by amandaterasu



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Fire, Period Typical Attitudes, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 10:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandaterasu/pseuds/amandaterasu
Summary: A diversion from Music of the Night to tell the story of Urianger and how he met Amadea.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Music of the Night - Core fic and side stories





	MOTN: Lent

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Music of the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109850) by [amandaterasu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandaterasu/pseuds/amandaterasu). 

> I hope you guys like this! It's got a lot of catholic imagery if that makes you uncomfortable. It's also Elidibus's first "on-screen" appearance so I guess that's nice.

Elidibus scowled at the advancing crusaders. They were nothing like those that went to the holy land a century before. These men, rather than wage war against foreign gods, were so eager for bloodshed they had begun to fight with their countrymen over religious minutiae. He found it tedious.

Still, war was always a good way to find texts. Others would assume they’d been destroyed, and he could pilfer them at his leisure without worrying over people coming in pursuit of them. It had worked before, most notably at Alexandria, and through the millenia he’d only perfected the work.

He hopped from rooftop to rooftop, unseen amidst the shadows while the citizens prepared for battle. But he had counted the men of the army approaching. This would not be a battle at all - it would be a massacre. Still, he’d grab what manuscripts he could from the church, then retire with them to Carcassone to sort them before taking those worthy of saving onward with his pilgrimage. Collecting the history of this world was his most sacred charge, and he intended to excel at it.

He reached one of the fortified bell towers of the Cathedral of Saint Nazaire, and scuttled down to the nearest window, shattering the glass and slipping inside. The clergy were out amongst the citizenry, fortifying the defenses and praying over those men who were armed. He should be relatively unnoticed. 

To Elidibus’s surprise, one priest still remained. A tall, middle-aged man with silver hair was at the altar, carefully wrapping the saints’ relics in linen and packing them into a satchel already heavy with books. It seems he was not the only one with an eye to preserving what might be lost. The ancient creature kept to the shadows of the choir loft, watching as the man went about his work, and the battle started. 

It only took a few moments - the crusaders were getting faster, it seemed, and soon enough a large stone came hurtling through the wooden roof, crashing into the far wall of the transept and catching much of the support beams in flame.

The priest, sensing the urgency, lifted his bag and slung it over one shoulder, then ran down the central aisle, dodging debris as it fell. Sadly, his mortal form was not fast enough, and one of the ancient oak beams crashed down, catching his legs. 

_Aah,_ Elidibus thought, _He will not make it after all._

Leaving his shadows, he hopped down from the loft onto the stone floor, and approached the priest’s bag, which lay a few feet before the man, just out of arm’s reach.

“Please,” the priest rasped, pushing himself up on an elbow. “I beg thee. Take the books and relics. Flee this place.” He looked back at his shattered limbs, then back to Elidibus. “I fear they are not long for this world should they remain in the city.”

“You are aware you will die, yes?” Elidibus asked. “Yet you beg me to save a few scraps of faded linen and an ancient bone? You value a few pages of your prophet’s words over your own life?”

“The loss of such knowledge wouldst be a far graver sin than the loss of mine own life,” the priest said, firm in his conviction. “Takest thee those books to Toulouse or Montpellier, and thou wilt find a ready welcome from my brothers.” Another beam crashed, breaking a wooden statue of their Blessed Virgin. “Prithee, thou must hurry!” he cried.

Elidibus smiled and knelt before the man. “Is there any sin that is not worth the preservation of knowledge?” he asked, curious to his response.

The man balked. “None, save to deny our savior.”

“But murder? Theft? Destruction and death?” 

The man nodded. “If that be what is required, then it is the faithful’s lot to see it so.”

“Good.” Elidibus caught the man by the back of his robes with one hand, and lifted the beam with the other, tossing it aside. “I’ve been looking for an assistant. What is your name?”

“Urianger,” he gasped. “Urianger Augurelt.”

* * *

**350 years later**

Urianger and Magnai exchanged smirks as Elidibus forced Solus to drink the vinegar.

“Maybe,” he said to his hapless victim, “if you express a touch more care in the ones you consumed, you wouldn’t be forced to deal with this. It’s been nigh on two decades, Solus.”

“Not all of uth can thate ourtheveth tholely on pretty boyth and academicth,” Solus said, lisping around the infection that had taken root in his fangs and gums. “You know nothing of my thuffering.”

Still, the white-haired man drank, forcing the wretched liquid into the crevices throughout his mouth.

Magnai’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “This tale will make your Nhaama laugh until she cries, Solus. I cannot wait to tell her.”

Solus rolled his eyes. “I’m not thome lovethick thop like you, Magnai. I am not tho thtupid ath to fall in love.”

Urianger, who did not share the Mongol’s faith, but did share his enjoyment of ribbing the elder, said, “From my understanding, it is not a matter of intelligence. His ‘mother moon’ has sent a woman for us all. From Magnai’s ramblings it seems that thou art doomed to fall in love whether thou chooseth to or not.”

Elidibus sighed and shook his head. “This vinegar isn’t working. I’m going to have to take him to the Archives.” He turned to Urianger, and eyed both he and the man beside him. “Augurelt. You’ll need to continue the pilgrimage. Magnai, would you accompany him? He’s nearly four centuries and still shies from killing.”

Magnai cuffed Urianger hard across the shoulder. “I will make a hero of him yet, Elidibus.”

“See that you do,” he hauled Solus up by one arm. “Come on, idiot. Maybe we can get some sense into you while we’re away.”

The two younger men waved their farewells to the older, then made their way back into the inn. “So,” Magnai asked. “Where are we to go next?”

Urianger picked up his glass of wine. “Venice.”

* * *

Though it was well past midnight when they reached the sunken city, lights still shone from every house, and music could be heard along every twisting street. It was the Carnivale, and the whole city had turned out for the celebration. Urianger quickly secured for himself a plague doctor’s mask in ivory and silver, with latin verses painted along the beak, and slipped it under his robes surreptitiously. He could afford the thing, of course. Most of his kind were wealthy beyond compare after a century or so, but it was better to be unknown.

Magnai, of course, could do little about his appearance, being obviously foreign, and stood out wherever he went, nearly a head taller than any man. So he selected a large golden mask, the face of the sun, with long gold spines that stood out from the face, mimicking rays neither of them had seen in centuries.

“Do you think she’ll like it?” he asked, holding up a second mask. It was a silver half-mask, with tiny sapphires and moonstones of varying shades, mimicking the image of moonlight on water. Urianger merely sighed. The Mongol always bought gifts for this woman he’d never met, his Nhaama, insisting it was her due. Well, bought was a strong word. He helped Magnai hide the shopkeeper’s body, then off they went, to be lost in the crowd.

They followed the sea of people for a time, for Urianger knew where they were headed - San Marco Square. It would be full of people tonight, and even more importantly, was flanked by both the Basilica, which would have a large number of religious texts, the Doge’s Palace, which would host the ruler’s private collection, and the Biblioteca Marciana, which was rather extensive as well. He would have until dawn to search all three, see if any new texts worth keeping had been published.

The Basilica proved no challenge at all. A few new missives, easily snatched. Some young monk would get the cane for their loss come morning, but it was not really Urianger’s concern. He tucked them into his leather folio, and replaced them in his satchel.

The vast number of new publications in the Biblioteca Marciana made Urianger’s head spin. As literacy became more common, so too did men who thought their words worth recording. And Magnai would be no help with this task. They would have to find accommodations, and take their time cataloguing the collection.

Last, they made their way to the Doge’s palace, where the drunken revelry was in full swing. No one noticed as they slipped in, and Magnai quickly adopted his usual attitude when they went to these parties: the foreign curiosity some other noble had invited, a man he could not pronounce the name of. It was quickly accepted, as the Venetians were always one to gape at the strange, despite their debauchery.

Reaching the Doge’s private collection, however, would require passing through the ballroom, the heart of the celebration, and Urianger felt a strange trepidation as he entered. It had been twenty years since he had been to Venice. The city held no terror for him. Why was he so hesitant?

Still, naught to do but carry on, and he pushed the door open to the raucous party that could be called an orgy and one would not be a liar. Lust and libation ruled the day, and Urianger was quick to scan the room, looking for the exit he needed. On the way, his eyes caught on a young woman, laughing and pulling herself away from a nobleman on his knees, begging for some kind of sexual favor.

“You can’t afford me, Pietro,” she called lightly, and stepped over him in a swish of red silk and jeweled trim. She glanced up, and Urianger saw her silver-blue eyes sparkle behind her gold mask, styled like the phoenix of legend. “Newcomers!” she called, “And sober. How tragic!” she folded her hands in front of her stomach and laughed, bending over to show her ample bosom, but Urianger’s eyes focused more on the rich red of her tongue, full of blood and promises of debauchery.

She stood, and made her way over to them. “Come, gentlemen. Welcome to Amadea’s pleasure palace. His Serenity has given over the party to my management while he enjoys my darling Veronica’s winsome wiles.” She lifted a bottle of wine in each hand and offered them. “We will fix your sobriety, both of mood and mind, ere the night is through.” 

A cheer went up from the others in the room, but Urianger did not notice. He was still entranced by her. Worse, he realized - Magnai had noticed, and was grinning like a damn fool.

“We should be happy to accept your invitation, madame,” he said, taking one of the bottles from her. “But I fear my friend will need a bit more convincing.” Magnai slapped his back, hard. “He has not been with a woman since the last crusade, I’d wager.”

Everyone laughed, believing it a joke, but Urianger was thankful for the mask that hid his blush. “That shall not be necessary,” he said. “I have no wish to trouble thee.”

“Ooooh,” the crowd called, as she put a hand to her chest, her expression one of feigned insult. 

“I should make you answer for that slight, sir!” She declared. “Gentlemen! A sword!”

Magnai’s hand clamped on his shoulder, and he felt his friend’s hot breath against his ear. “If your Nhaama kills you, I will let her live. Solely so that you might know loneliness in death as punishment for the _idiocy_ you display tonight.”

“My…” he looked at Magnai incredulously. “She is not my Nhaama, friend.”

“I saw you look into her eyes and see her soul answer back to you, Urianger.” His voice was harsh. “Do not make me shame you to spare us all your denials.”

Someone had given the woman a rapier, and she leveled it at his chest. “Tell me, then, what could be more valuable than my attention? Men of this city lay fortunes at my feet for an evening between my thighs.” The men in question hooted their approval.

“Knowledge, my lady,” Urianger said. He wanted to bring this farce to an end. “The night of Carnival is the one time I might lay mine eyes upon his Serenity’s library. I wish to do so ere the morrow’s dawn makes sinners of us all.”

To his surprise, her smile brightened, and she turned the sword, offering it back to one of the men nearby. “A fellow scholar, then! That is something new.” She took a drink from the bottle of wine he still had not taken from her hands, then turned. “Lucrezia!” Another courtesan, in green organza and nothing else, emerged from a pile of writhing bodies. Amadea handed her the bottle. “See to this party ‘till I return. Mayhap I will find a way into this lonesome scholar’s heart.”

The people laughed, but Lucrezia began some other game, and attention turned to her. Amadea grabbed Urianger’s wrist, and smiled. “Follow me. I’ll take you to the library.”

She lead him down twisting, darkened hallways, up three flights of stairs, to a pair of large double doors. “Will you be joining us?” she asked Magnai.

The Mongol shook his head. “I will guard the door, so that you can have some privacy.”

She laughed, and Urianger rolled his eyes, but he did not pull his hand from her grasp. The library was warm, but deserted. The revelers seemed more interested in knowledge of the carnal variety than anything to be found here.

“Thou mayest return to the party, if thou wish.” He said, running his finger over the spines. Things were missing. Nothing here was new. He would need time to sort this mystery.

“Do you think me such a fool?” she asked, and swayed toward him. “To leave a sober man unattended in the library on Carnivale? Do you think I do not know the story?”

“Story?” he asked, and raised an eyebrow.

“It is an old legend,” she repeated, “and one I think you would know.” Amadea moved past him, to the window, and stared out at the revelers.

“What makest thou think I wouldst be interested in the idle prattling of a courtesan?” Urianger asked, beginning to move systematically through the shelves. Surely something had been added.

“Because you’re asking yourself where the new volumes are,” she said, and lifted the bottle in her hand. “And why I am suddenly of clear mind and perfect diction now that we’re away from the party.”

He froze, and turned to look at her. Amadea’s smile was wide, triumphant, beneath broad, high cheekbones in her heart-shaped face.

“Perhaps I wouldst like to hear thy story,” Urianger said hesitantly. “But what is thy price?”

“Tell me if what of it is true, when I have finished, and allow me three questions.” she said.

He nodded. “As my lady commands.”

“There is a rumor… a legend. A pair of thieves who steal books, pamphlets, important missives. They collect the knowledge of the world and hide it away, far from the reach of mortal men. Once every twenty years, on the night of Carnivale, they slip into the Doge’s Library, and take his precious tomes, unseen by all the revelers that throng the palace, then vanish again into the sea.” She took another sip from the bottle. “Twenty years ago, those two men came to the Carnivale. They slipped into the Doge’s palace. They took the books. One of them was of average height, and stumbled upon a girl, hiding beneath a table, reading by candlelight. The other man, tall, with silver hair, held her close and said his prayers until she fell asleep in his arms. In the morning they were gone.”

Urianger was glad he was dead, otherwise his heart would stop. He had given the child no thought since that night, but the memory came flooding back all the same. The same bright eyes. The same caramel hair. The same heart-shaped face.

“I have grown,” Amadea said, “and am a woman now. But you have not aged a day. So, tell me the truth of my tale, stranger.”

He swallowed. He knew he should lie. It was what Elidibus would do. But he stared at her, into those eyes like storm-wracked seas, and heard Magnai’s voice in his head, calling her his Nhaama. He did not know if he believed such things, but he knew he would be honest. At least tonight. 

“It’s true,” Urianger said. “All of it. The hidden library, the visiting on Carnivale, even finding a small child hidden beneath yonder table.” Her smile was radiant, victorious. “I believe thou art entitled to three questions.”

She set the bottle down, and moved closer to him. “Where is your hidden library?”

“Svalbarð,” he replied. “Far beyond the northern shores of Norway. It spends half the year in darkness, the other half in light.” He held up one finger. “Thou hast two more questions.”

“Why did you leave me behind?” Amadea’s voice was soft. 

“We stealeth books, not children.” He raised a second finger, but his other hand slipped about her waist of its own accord. She was warm, soft, and made of those voluptuous curves one found celebrated in the works of the masters.

“Will you make love to me tonight?” Her eyes were hopeful, yearning, and Urianger was aware of every place her body pressed against him.

He raised a third finger, then dropped his hand. “No. But when the time comes for my companion and I to leave the city, if thou still wish to go with us, thou mayst accompany us. But I do have some morals, despite my thievery, and I will not take thee until thou art my wife.”

He did not know why that last part slipped out, but he accepted it, and cursed Magnai for putting ideas in his head. He might as well see what kind of madness the Mongol had tricked him into signing up for, and thus he bent his head to kiss her.

Her mouth was hot and eager and thrummed with her heartbeat reminding him of how much blood moved in that scandalous tongue of hers, that explored his mouth so eagerly. He reciprocated, letting his hands cup her breasts, trail along her corset, and lift her backside to seat her on the table so he could enjoy his fill of her, already regretting that he had answered her last question _’No.’_ None of the others would have such compunctions.

But the taste of her was maddening, and he suddenly wanted to drink, to have her as much as he could without going back on his word. Urianger broke the kiss and lowered his head to her breasts, her laughter stilling when he sank his fangs into the luscious swell that peeked out from the red silk and gold organza.

Amadea gasped and tried to pull away, and it was only then Urianger realized he had lost control. God in heaven, Magnai had been right. This woman was _intended_ for him, a gift from the Blessed Virgin to ease his lonely centuries, and he could not stop himself from indulging in the liquid bliss that poured from her. He tore his fangs from her breast, leaving long, ragged gashes and bit her, again and again. Her neck, her shoulder, the inner curve of her elbow, her wrist. He tore open her gown, leaving bites along her belly and thighs as he sampled all she had to give. 

Urianger must have made some noise, because Magnai suddenly burst into the room, and uttered a swear in his foreign tongue before pulling him off of her and cuffing him hard across the chin. “Don’t kill her, Augurelt,” he hissed. “Can you close her wounds without going mad again?” 

Urianger stared in horror at her, pale and trembling in a pool of her own blood. Had he done that? “I…” he said weakly, “I don’t know.” 

Magnai growled low in his throat. “Forgive me for what I am going to do, but I’d prefer to not have to kill you.”

With exquisite tenderness, Magnai leaned down and licked every open wound he’d left, coldly and clinically, while keeping one eye on Urianger. Within a few moments she was healed, but her gown was still rent and there was blood everywhere. The larger man scowled. “I’ll be right back. Don’t touch her.” And he departed, leaving Urianger to stare in horror at the unconscious form before him. Elidibus had warned him losing control was easy if you were not careful, but it had never been like that before. Never so intense, so driving.

The Mongol returned a few moments later with a diaphanous gown, and pulled it over Amadea’s head, leaving the ruins of her dress in the blood on the parquet floor. He shook his head in disgust. “I leave you alone with your Nhaama for less than fifteen minutes and you nearly kill her. You are not yet worthy.” Though Urianger knew little of Magnai’s religion, he was aware it was a grave insult, and well deserved. 

“I couldst not help myself,” he said, looking up at his friend. “I hath never had such intense… yearning,” he rubbed his face in his hands.

That seemed to soften Magnai. “I suppose you were not raised knowing this day would come, so you had no chance to prepare for it. Very well. Let me find somewhere safe to keep her. You will not know of it, because I do not trust you to act sanely where she is concerned.”

“I thank thee,” Urianger said, and watched as Magnai vanished out the window, the woman still unconscious in his arms.

* * *

It was nearly a week before Urianger saw Amadea again. They had ensconced themselves in the Biblioteca Marciana, as it had the largest collection of new works. He had heard the noblemen of the city would have great debates here, and he had taken to lurking amidst the shadowed shelves after sunset to listen to their discourse. They spoke again tonight, waxing on about beautiful women, then he heard it. Her high, bright laughter amongst them.

The men spoke of which of them was happier, and how to determine the happiest amongst them as Urianger moved to the edge of a bookcase, peeking at her from the darkness. She was silhouetted by the fireplace at the far wall, and it illuminated her pale skin like the marble statues of saints of his childhood. In observance of the season, she was veiled, but he still saw her eyes widen slightly when she caught sight of him. 

Amadea took a step toward him, but one of the men she was with called, “And how do you measure your happiness, my lady?”

Urianger turned, hiding himself behind the shelf and pressed a hand to his chest. 

Her voice carried off the vaulted ceiling. “My happiness, my lord? My happiness is measured in inches. Two, four, six, eight…” Boistrous laughter filled the room. “I truly love my chopines!”

He could hear the lie in her words, but still cursed his long-stilled heart. How could it still bring him so much pain after centuries of silence. Despite his desperation to forget, he remembered her profession - what she _was_ \- and why she was with these men. One of them would have her tonight.

“You must forgive me, my lords, but I must excuse myself a moment. Mayhap you will reach some agreement as to the true measure of happiness while I’m gone.” They called wishes for her quick return after her, and as he predicted, she appeared around the edge of the bookcase. A finger to her lips, she beckoned for him to follow, and slipped out a side door.

He found her in the hallway, bathed in moonlight. “My lady,” he breathed, his hands reaching for her of their own accord.

“I have another question for you, stranger. What would have in exchange for an answer?”

He paused, and pondered. “That depends on thy question, mademoiselle,” he replied. 

“I would know your name.” Amadea’s voice was a purr, and she drifted closer to him as she spoke, her hips swaying to a song he desperately wanted to hear.

“Let me touch thee,” Urianger replied. “Permit me the freedom to touch thee.”

“Is that all?” she smiled benevolently, “Of course you may.”

Urianger stepped closer, and reached up, brushing a caramel curl from her face and tucking it behind her ear. He closed his eyes and let his fingers follow the shell of her ear, down behind the lobe, then trace her jaw until he reached the point of her delicate chin. With slight pressure, he lifted her face to his, and leaned close as if to kiss her. Her lips parted expectantly, but he stopped just short, and whispered, “My name is Urianger Augurelt.”

“A Frenchman,” she replied, a chuckle in her voice. “I’ve heard rumors about you.”

He opened his eyes and grinned at her. “All of them are scandalously true.”

“Prove it,” Amadea whispered.

Their lips met for the barest instant before strong hands pulled him away, and he saw Magnai glaring down at him. “So eager for a repeat of last time?” The Oronir Khagan turned to the woman. “Your client is looking for you.” 

She nodded and brushed passed him, heading back towards the library. 

“Wait,” Urianger called. “When can I see you again?”

“Sunday,” she replied.

“After sunset, in the square.” He gasped.

“Don’t make me wait forever,” she whispered, then she was gone.

As soon as she was out of earshot, the Mongol shook him. “Urianger. You must be more careful with your Nhaama. You nearly killed her last time. You play with fire.”

“Of course I do,” He said, staring towards the door she had vanished through. “I _burn_ for her.”

* * *

Sunday, just after sunset, Urianger slipped out of the Biblioteca, searching the square. While raucous laughter echoed from the Doge’s palace, he saw her waiting just outside, near a pillar. Between them, the other newcomers to Venice, the Inquisition, ranted about sin and iniquity and hellfire. He ignored them, slipping along the edge of the square towards the docks. After a moment, her movements mirrored his across the square, until they met at the stone edge. 

“Walk with me,” he murmured, and they lost themselves in the streets. 

Amadea was a strangely invigorating presence by his side, a sharp break from the usual calm detachment that normally defined his demeanor. The people of the city seemed not to notice them as they moved between the twisting cobbled roads defined by the borders of the canals. Finally, they found themselves inside a covered bridge between two alleyways, and she pulled him against one wall.

Though the bridge was covered, decorative holes in the shape of flowers had been carved along the walls, and their delicate petals, cast in moonlight, seemed to fall across her face and hair like an offering for her intercession as she lowered the hood of her dark cloak. They stared at each other for a few moments, then he brought a hand up and brushed back the strands that had fallen into her face. Her eyes fluttered closed and she leaned into his touch.

“I had found myself burdened by myriad questions for thee,” he whispered, “yet now I canst not call them to my mind.”

“Well, I have a question for you,” Amadea replied, and she stepped closer to him. “What is your price for an answer?” 

“A kiss,” he whispered, “that I might have some solace for these past days I’ve spent yearning for thee.” She laughed, and he felt the heat of her just before her lips found his. 

Urianger trembled, clinging to every scrap of self-control he could find as her scandalous tongue swept into his mouth, exploring him. It brushed over his fangs but did not falter, even after a few drops of her blood fell into his mouth. He felt the yearning come upon him, and with a jerk he set her away from himself, putting an arm’s length between them.

“I dare no further,” he panted, “I will not risk thee again.” Every inch of his body screamed for more, and the taste of her blood lingered on his tongue, making his mouth water. “Ask thy question.”

She seemed bemused. “Will you really take me away from here with you, when you must leave?”

“Yes,” Urianger breathed. “I wilt take thee with me on the rest of my journey, and then to my home in Svalbarð once winter begins to set in.” 

“I should go,” she whispered. “I will be missed.”

“By whom?” he asked, suddenly clutching her wrists.

“You have not paid for that answer,” she teased, but relented. “My patron for the evening.”

“B-but ‘tis a Sunday,” he objected. “In _Lent_.”

“Yes,” Amadea nodded. “And I am a courtesan. My landlord still demands rent, regardless of the season. My belly still rumbles, regardless of the priests’ prattling.”

“I forbid thee,” Urianger gasped out, before he could stop himself. “Thou art _mine_.”

She pulled herself from his grasp and shook her head. “No.” She turned from him, and began to walk away.

“Name thy price,” he called after her. “What will it take for thee to give up this life and stay by my side?”

“And let you cage me?” she replied, laughing. “My freedom is the one thing no man can afford.”

“Next Sunday,” Urianger followed her helplessly.

“Until then,” she replied, then lifted her hood, and was lost amidst the crowded streets.

* * *

“Do you have a patron for the evening?” Urianger blurted out the moment she came to his side the next Sunday.

Amadea’s laughter bubbled up from her. “And what will you give me for that answer?”

“What wouldst thou have?” He found himself pushing back the hood of her cloak, stroking her hair in the dim moonlight without invitation.

She thought for a few moments. “Kiss me like it is the last time you’ll ever see me.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot.”

“Why not?”

He swallowed. “Because if it were the last time I wouldst see thee, neither of us would survive it.”

She smiled ruefully. “Then kiss me like you’re trying to convince me to leave Venice with you.”

“That I _can_ do.” He said, then pulled her against his chest. He slid one hand around her waist, holding her close, while the other clutched the back of her neck, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. When their lips met, he bent himself to being gentle, teasing a gasp from her as she tried to press the kiss further, but he pulled away. “I intend to leave thee wanting, Amadea,” he said her name like a prayer, “until thou wilt give thyself to me without reservation. Then such satisfaction that thou canst only dream of shall be thine.”

“At the price of my freedom,” she countered, but he shook his head.

“Nay. Be my bride and thou wilt be free to do whatever pleaseth thee. I will move heaven and earth for thy delight.” He kissed her forehead, and inhaled her scent. It was easier, now. The more time he spent with her the easier it was to resist the urge to tear her open and feast on her fluttering heart. “And my answer?” he prompted.

Amadea shook her head. “I do not have a patron for the night, so I will have to leave to find one in a little while.”

“How much?” He wrapped one caramel curl around his finger.

“What?” She seemed surprised by his question, but he didn’t think she would be.

“How much would it cost to buy thee for the night?” He still had not released her waist, and held her tighter. Urianger’s mind suddenly raced. “For that matter, what are thy rates for more long-term arrangements?”

Something darkened in her face. “I am not for sale.”

“But thou art. Thou hast said so thyself. And if thou wilt not give it up of thy own accord, then I will buy thee every night. I will make thee the wealthiest-” He was shocked when she struggled against him, pushing him away, and released his grip on her. Without a word she straightened her cloak, lifted the cowl again, and walked away from him.

“Amadea!” he called after her. “I know not what I have done to displease thee. Tell me, I beg thee, so that I might rectify it.”

“You constantly try to find ways to take my freedom from me. I know what it is to be a wife. I will not be locked in _any_ cage, no matter how delicately you gild it.” Her steps quickened, and she darted through the side streets, forcing him to forgo his veneer of mortality to keep up. 

When she turned the next corner, he was there, and she tumbled into his arms unexpectedly. “Thou knowest not what I propose, thus I take no offense at thy anger,” Urianger said desperately, gripping her arms tightly. “And you knowest not what I am, thus I take no offense at thy assumptions regarding my similarities to the men of Venice. But know this, Amadea,” he leaned close and whispered into her ear, “thou art mine. Thou wert made to be mine. If thou shouldst choose to run from me, I will chase thee. If thou shouldst choose to hide from me, I will find thee. If thou chooseth to deny me, I will not force thy hand but I will doggeth thy steps.” He lifted her from the ground as though she were lighter than air, and kissed her greedily, scraping her tongue with his fangs so that drops of her deliciousness fell into his mouth. He could have wept when she responded, her hands clutching at the front of his doublet to pull him closer. 

Urianger pushed himself to the edges of his control, letting his hands explore where he had not the nerve to take his lips, then they broke apart as the urge to tear into her began rushing towards a violent peak. “Know well my face, my lady,” he whispered as he set her down, “for it will ever be in the periphery of thy vision, for the rest of thy days, regardless of what thou shouldst choose.”

Amadea stared up at him, her winsome smile gone, replaced by something that inflamed him even more - cold calculation. 

“One hundred and fifty ducats,” she said, and tilted her chin defiantly. “If you wish me to not seek a patron tonight, it will be one hundred and fifty ducats.”

“Wilt thou spend thy night with me?” He brushed the curls from her face, and did not balk at the price, though it was more than a common man would make in a year.

“No,” she said, leaning into his touch. “If you truly wish to give me my freedom, if that is what you’re offering, then you will pay full price for one night, and leave me to do as I please without your interference.”

“I will not interfere,” he murmured, and kissed her temple, “but I will watch.”

* * *

Amadea had read.

That was when Urianger knew that Magnai was right, that this woman was his “Nhaama”, his soulmate, the one intended for him above all others. Of all the delights of this world she could have claimed for herself with the money he gave her, she instead ensconced herself in the Biblioteca and read books by candlelight.

He took a plush chair nearby and did the same, reading about her world while he observed her, until just after midnight, she set aside the first book, finished, and took a second. Rather than return to her own chair, she came to him and deposited herself in his lap. They read together in easy silence until dawn approached, and he was forced to bid her adieu.

“When will I see thee again?” He asked.

“Next Sunday,” she whispered into his lips. “Have the ducats ready, and we shall see where the evening takes me.” 

Urianger watched Amadea’s form from one of the large windows as she vanished into the pre-dawn quiet of the city, only to turn and find one of the Inquisitors watching him from the balcony. 

“It is not seemly for an educated gentlemen to encourage such curiosities in women,” he said. “Their minds are… flighty. And the courtesans, who have cast aside their morals in pursuit of the pleasures of flesh are the worst of the lot.”

“I find it hard to believe that thou wouldst profess the same faith I do,” Urianger said curtly as he headed for the stairs.

“And why is that, my lord?”

“Of all those that followed Him, ‘twas not one of His disciples, but Mary Magdalene to whom our Lord first revealed His glorious resurrection.” Urianger shook his head.

“Do you not fight for the Lord, good sir?” the inquisitor asked.

He scoffed. “Christ needeth not _my_ help. ‘Tis those thou wouldst condemn, I fear, who may.”

* * *

Urianger stepped out of the Biblioteca to find Amadea throwing herself into his arms. “Wha…?” he asked, then glanced up to see a crowd of Inquisitors watching them. 

“They’ve been following me all week,” she hissed under her breath.

He pulled her into the Biblioteca and shut the door behind her. “Have they touched thee?”

“No,” she shook her head, “just shouted the usual drivel.”

“They will only escalate.” Both Urianger and Amadea turned to see Magnai standing behind them, his massive axe strapped to his back. “We need to leave the city soon.”

“When?” Amadea asked, and to Urianger’s surprise, her hands grabbed his arms, pulling him closer to her.

“A week, maybe two,” he replied.

“Palm Sunday,” Urianger murmured, then looked down at Amadea, “Canst thou be ready to depart by then?”

“Where will we go?” she whispered.

“Rome. ‘Tis the next stop on the Pilgrimage, and thou and I have business there besides.” Magnai raised an eyebrow at Urianger’s words, but turned his gaze to Amadea.

“I’ll be ready,” she said, and then she was gone, back out into the night.

* * *

Urianger sorted the books at a maddened pace, packing them into crates and addressing them to Elidibus’s house in Paris. That was where they usually began their arduous trek north into the frozen wastes. 

He only saw Amadea for a moment the next Sunday, a single maddening kiss at the doors of the Biblioteca Marciana and a promise to come again at sundown on Palm Sunday, ready to depart.

Yet, on Palm Sunday, she did not arrive at the appointed hour.

Urianger found Magnai pacing outside of the Basilica. “What is it?” he asked, frowning.

“Amadea has been taken.” He said, angrily.

“Taken?” Urianger was confused. 

“By the men in black robes. They found her abed with one of the bishops, according to Lucrezia.”

“Lucrezia?” Urianger was confused. “Who is Lucrezia?”

Magnai growled in his throat. “You are foolish. You are maddened by a whore, you think she does not share her house with other-”

Both Magnai and Urianger were shocked as the priest’s nails dug into the Mongol’s skin like claws, leaving long gashes in his face. They stood in silence for a few heartbeats, then Magnai laughed. “So you will defend her, it seems. Better.”

“I… forgive me, Magnai. ‘Twas not my intention to harm thee, but -”

“Yes it was,” he interrupted. “I spoke ill of your Nhaama, and you reacted as any worthy man would - with violence. I only ask that you remember this lesson when I find my own, and treat her with respect. I will not disparage your Amadea again.”

Urianger nodded awkwardly as his friend licked his fingers and smothed away the wounds. “Well. Dost thou know where they have taken her?”

Magnai shook his head. “No, but I know where they will bring her.” He pointed across the plaza, where they were erecting a large pyre, with a giant wooden stake in the center. Urianger clenched his teeth, while Magnai continued. “The bishop she was found with accused her of bewitching him. When they demanded she confess, she refused. When they told her she would be burned, do you know what she said?”

“What?” His voice was hoarse with concern.

His friend grinned widely. “She told them, ‘Urianger will not allow it.’” Magnai laughed. “Not me, not the giant foreign man with an axe the same size she is, oh no. Your precious Nhaama believes, even now, that _you_ will be the one to save her.” He felt the other man’s hand land on his shoulder with surprising force. “Will you?”

“Yes,” Urianger said.

Magnai nodded. “Good. You had best make it a tale worth telling _my_ Nhaama.”

* * *

Urianger groaned from the roof of the Biblioteca Marciana. He had not slept during the day, instead holed up in the attic with Magnai avoiding the sunlight and finalizing the plan. There was one point - one moment - where she would be unguarded, and even an inexperienced fighter like Urianger could steal her away: after the pyre had been lit.

Fire was one of the few things that could kill their kind. He would be risking everything - his eternal life, his very soul, to snatch the woman from the flames and take her with him. Magnai had left him a dagger, and gone ahead to the Doge’s private dock, to secure a covered gondola so they could slip out of the city.

The crowd in the square became louder as Amadea was pulled from the basilica, lead before and behind by inquisitors toward the pyre. They bound her to the stake with rope, but she did not move.

“This is your last chance to confess, woman,” the Inquisitor said. “Lest you risk the fires of damnation.”

“I confess to one regret,” she replied angrily. “I regret that I was born amongst men who were such _cowards_. Men who see in women only what they would have of them - who make of us nothing but wives or whores or holy virgins. Your obsession with us swirls around our sex, but if I were as delicate and soft as you pretend, you would not need to bind me so.”

The crowd laughed raucously, but the Inquisitor scowled. “You have brought this on yourself. Speak your last words.” Then he descended the platform.

Urianger crept to the corner of the roof, and grabbed the pennant-strewn rope that connected the Biblioteca to the Doge’s palace, and took the dagger in his free hand.

He remembered what Magnai had told him, when he’d handed him the weapon. “A Nhaama will make any man a hero. Even you.”

Down below in the square, Amadea smiled brightly to the crowd. “I fear that I must leave you tonight, La Serenissima. One way or another.”

He watched as the guards approached, and tossed lit torches on the kindling around the pyre. With a single quick strike, he cut the rope free of the roof, and the release of its tension sent him hurtling through the air, down towards the growing flames. He put out one arm, and caught Amadea, stake and all, before the rope continued in it’s arc, and the stake itself snapped in half, giving way to his immortal strength, and he carried her to a balcony on the second floor of the Doge’s palace.

Amadea was in tears, still tied to the massive piece of wood, and Urianger reached for her, but she whispered, “Your arm.”

He looked down, and saw it had caught in the leaping flames. With a growl of frustration, he tore off his cloak and battered his arm until the flames died, leaving him with a red and raw scrawl from his elbow to his fingertips.

“Art thou well?” he asked, and reached for her again, this time grabbing the ropes that bound her and snapping them with a series of quick jerks. 

“For now, but I think I tire of Venice,” she replied, looking pointedly at the guards swarming towards the palace.

“As do I, it seems. Can I convince thee to run away with me?”

“Will you take me to your Svalbarð?”

“Aye,” he said. “Wilt thou consent to marry me?”

“If you can find a priest to perform the service.” She countered as he swept her into his arms and ran along the walkway towards the docks.

“Worry not,” he said, “I’ve someone in mind.”

* * *

“Wait,” Amadea said as Urianger dragged her after him through the halls of the papal apartments in Rome. “You’re a _priest_?”

“Yes,” he said, “though I have not acted in a clerical state for quite some time.”

“And we’re going to the _pope_ because…” She seemed surprisingly unbothered by his status.

“Thou and I are both of the true faith, my dear. I will not do these things improperly. I must receive dispensation from His Holiness to wed, and then we need but perform the ceremony, and thou shalt be mine.” He took another left, and found himself outside the richly appointed bedroom.

Pope Pius V was awoken by two strange figures at the foot of his bed. One was a woman, in a shift of undyed wool. The other was a tall man with silver hair. It was the man who spoke. “Thy Holiness, I would prefer not to kill thee. Thus I need thee to perform a few sacraments.” He glanced out the window, towards the moon brushing the western horizon. “Right now.”

When Pius realized the man was _quite_ serious about killing him, he found he had no problems saying the ritual words, granting the man exemption from the priestly vows of celibacy, hearing the confessions of murder from him and fornication from his companion, and blessing their marriage in the sight of God and men. 

“That will do, thy Holiness,” the man said, and lifted the woman into his arms. “Do get some rest. Tomorrow is Easter.”

* * *

Urianger was shaking as he ran his hands over Amadea’s skin, sealed away as they were in the catacombs beneath St. Peter’s Basilica. No sunlight would reach them here, and she was his wife, by decree of the Holy Father himself. He need not worry his conscience over things like sin in regards to her.

“My dear one,” Urianger said, lifting her hand to his lips. “Last time we came close to this, I nearly killed thee. I wouldst try once more, but I fear in my ardor I may harm thee again. Thus I must ask. Wilt thou allow me to turn thee? To make thee like me?”

“Why?” She asked, sitting up from where he’d draped her across a stone sarcophagus. “Why would you need to change me?”

“If thou wert like me…” he said, and let his tongue flicker over the inside of her wrist. “My passions couldst not kill thee. The only things that can slay my kind are fire and sunlight and decapitation. I could give rein to my passions without fear. As it is, I am concerned that they will overcome me whilst I am inside thee, and I will kill thee unintentionally.”

“I knew it,” she laughed. “You’re a vamp-”

Urianger lifted a finger to her lips. “We useth not that word. But yes.”

Amadea nodded. “Is it the price?”

“Of what?” He asked, already stroking her collarbone.

“My freedom from the tyranny imposed by my sex,” she whispered.

“No,” he kissed her forehead. “That thou hast already bought with thy flight from Venice. It is the price of loving me.”

“Is that all?” she murmured, “Then I accept.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Now.” He pushed her back down onto her back and climbed atop her. “Do tell me if thou thinkest thou art dying.” He dug his fingernails into her hips and lifted her pelvis from the stone, pushing into her and groaning with relief. He was finally, _finally_ inside Amadea, the patron saint of his obsessions. He sank his fangs into her body again and again, marking up her neck, her breasts, her shoulders - any part of her that he could reach as he indulged himself in the one delight that was no sin.

Urianger enjoyed her writhing, her moaning, he even enjoyed the way Amadea’s movements became weaker with every passing heartbeat as her blood fell upon the stone facade beneath her. Some perverse part of him wanted to see how far she would go - how much she would allow him to have before she fought back. But she didn’t. She was cold and nearly still when he pulled his mouth from the ragged hole in her throat and came into her limp, barely breathing body.

Then, as her heart began to give a last few desperate flutters, he dragged one fingernail along his neck, and lifted her mouth to the cut.

* * *

“Where is Urianger?” Elidibus asked Magnai as they waited near Trevi Fountain for Solus to finish frolicking with the pair of twins he found.

“With his Nhaama,” Magnai replied, grinning foolishly.

“What?” Elidibus said. “You must be joking. He’s a priest.”

“Yes,” Magnai said. “Last I heard he was going to wake up some man named Pius and get ‘special dispensation’ for the wedding.”

Elidibus rubbed the side of his face. “I leave you two alone for _two months_, and when I return, Urianger, the trembling priest who took a vow of celibacy, is _married_?”

“Yes. He is supposed to meet me here when he has sated himself on her enough to rejoin polite society.”

Solus climbed out of the fountain, leaving both women’s bodies floating lifeless in the water. “That man is so repressed, we won’t see him for months, if the woman survives it.”

“Oh, he’s decided to turn her,” Magnai said. “That way she can survive whatever he does.”

Elidibus looked horrified, but Solus laughed. “Kept that boy on too tight of a leash, Elidibus. Now you’ll have to deal with a newborn and Urianger.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t call me a ‘newborn’,” A woman’s voice called from across the square, and Magnai lifted a hand in greeting. They made their way toward the others, Urianger following Amadea with a lovesick smile. She lowered her voice as she approached. “It makes him sound like a pervert.”

“Is he?” Solus asked.

“Is he what?” She tilted her head.

“A pervert.” The white-haired elder said, and Amadea laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing and want to read more, follow my twitter: [@amandaterasu](https://twitter.com/amandaterasu).


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